


Cabinet Man

by luxuriantegg



Series: my my what a spirited phone! [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Banter, Internalized Homophobia, Long One-Shot, M/M, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Songfic, also they're seniors in high school bc why not, arcade cabinet abuse, be gay do crimes, but more as a plot outline compared to the "this song is sad and i shall make its thesis my plot", just dudes being bros until someone gets possessed, no i just took the whole thing, thanks neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 10:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuriantegg/pseuds/luxuriantegg
Summary: In which Richie must prove his love for Eddie by beating an arcade ghost at Mortal Kombat II.





	Cabinet Man

**Author's Note:**

> were you looking for someone to put reddie into the "plot" of lemon demon's cabinet man(aka the best song on spirit phone don't @ me) because here it is 
> 
> (well, cabinet man is more a _character_ than a plot—and i'll just stop rambling and get to the actual story)

_“The day they found me, I hadn't yet been played_

_Inside my workshop behind the old arcade_

_Electric desires had unraveled all my wires_

_Now I'm in the box for safekeeping_

_The news reporters reported that I died_

_But all my organs were living on inside_

_Circuit board to brain with two lungs collecting change_

_One big human heart gently beeping_

_You can't win me, I can't be beat_

_I won't hurt you unless you cheat_

_You can't see me behind the screen_

_I'm half human and half machine_

_Thank God for business, they let me take the floor_

_I stood so proudly, like I was going to war_

_Players soon appeared and I quickly was revered_

_This must be what love would have felt like_

_Such dedication, they came from miles away_

_With eyes so piercing, they'd wait their turn to play_

_In perfect patient lines because I was in their minds_

_I could do whatever I felt like (Whatever I felt like)_

_You can't win me, I can't be beat_

_I won't hurt you unless you cheat_

_You can't see me behind the screen_

_I'm half human and half machine_

_I'm happy for years and years_

_And only eating the occasional maintenance man_

_Only driving a few kids to madness_

_Maybe they were predisposed to madness, who knows?_

_I only want to have fun_

_But now they're telling me my days here are done_

_'Cause there's a little tiny box they make in Japan_

_And pretty soon it's gonna fit in your hand_

_It's getting lonely, it's getting hard to breathe_

_The arcade's empty, I think it's Christmas Eve_

_Someone's broken in, now they're painting on my skin_

_Breaking me and taking my quarters_

_Bashing in my face with a crowbar_

_Kicking me and pushing me over_

_Now they see my blood on their sneakers_

_You can't win me, I can't be beat_

_I won't hurt you unless you cheat_

_You can't see me behind the screen_

_I'm half human and half machine”_

—Cabinet Man, Lemon Demon

🕹️

Despite everything, he was still there. Still in Derry. Still frequenting the same arcade.

Of course, it was easy to get that crawling feeling up the spine that something wasn’t quite right, or an icy chill when a horrible memory came creeping back. This was more often than he would’ve liked to admit. Sometimes the fighters on the Mortal Kombat I cabinet screen would look weird. Scorpion might rip his face off before the fatality, or Shao Kahn might be covered in blood to start. But, maybe he was only seeing things. And he never played these games with anyone. Not for fear that they might see it, or that he might freak out in front of them. No, it wasn’t that, but he knew well enough why.

Frankly, he didn’t like to share his findingswith the rest of the group. They’d severed somewhat since their last expedition into the sewer, and so he usually rode his bike alone. Sometimes with Stan. Sometimes with Eddie. He only ever talked to Mike if he needed the answers to the U.S. History assignment. He might’ve seen Bev at the supermarket. Ben had a summer job at the cinema, so he usually snuck into movies free thanks to him. But, he never really hung out with them. There were too many things on his mind. Or maybe there was only one thing on his mind. He never was quite sure.

So he’d park his bike at the arcade. Alone. The arcade gave him something mindless to preoccupy his hands while he lost himself to his thoughts. Sometimes, when he got a little too far, a little too deep, and a little too explicit, he’d be slammed back into real life as he listened to the cabinet laugh grimly at him for losing whatever game he decided to drift toward. And he’d shake his head. Snap himself out of it. Get back in the game. He’d lose himself again.

But one night during winter break, it was hard to ignore the cabinet. He’d come there after a long day of shoveling snow out of the driveway. It felt nice to just stand back and let his hands move without input, a simple tactile memory, without having to put muscle into it. He walked in, disregarding the “Help Wanted” sign for maintenance men, who seemed to be in and out more often these days. He took out his wallet and inserted a quarter into the old PAC-Man machine. He let his eyes roam over the more-or-less black and blue screen. PAC-Man, probably the oldest machine in the arcade, usually messed up the least. It was a sturdy cabinet for its time.

And yet.

It was hard to ignore.

It was hard to ignore when a thick red liquid seeped from the seam between the control board and the screen and reached his fingertips. Slowly but surely, he removed himself from his thoughts and slipped his right hand from the joystick and the left from the side of the cabinet. He stepped back and tripped on a shoelace, crashing to the ground. Flowing like a slow magma, bubbling then popping at the seam, dripping and oozing down the sides of the cabinet, the blood almost seemed to follow him, desperate to envelop him.

Quickly, he clambered to his feet. He scrambled out of the arcade. He slammed the door behind him. He threw himself onto his bike, and like the wind, he was off. Not a single glance was given back to the arcade.

Well, maybe just one. One glance. Just to see if the blood had trailed behind him. It didn’t. But after a resounding crash into a large object, he was sure blood was trailing from his nose.

Weakly, he pushed himself up. “Fuck,” he muttered, a solitary finger gingerly pressing against his upper lip. Drawing it near his eyes, he found he was correct in the assumption of injury. While the blood in the arcade may not have been real, this certainly was. He scowled, looking for the cause, but his expression soon melted into relief.

“Eddie?” he murmured, still dazed, head swimming in circles. “You okay?” he somehow managed.

He realized he couldn’t really see in front of him due to his glasses falling off in the crash. He wouldn’t have known it was Eddie if he hadn’t heard the cry that he let out upon ramming into him. He could barely make out the two bikes, one laying on the other. He could see a shadow sitting on his side. His glasses were nowhere in sight.

Squinting, he tumbled forward from his back onto his knees. He reached out with both hands, and in turn, so did the shadow. But his grip was too strong, and they fell backward. He cushioned Eddie’s fall at the expense of his back. His nose was buried in the crook of Eddie’s neck upon impact with the blacktop. He removed himself like a turtle from its shell. Eddie’s dark brown eyes were wide and shaking.

“Holy fucking shit. Richie, you dumbass... You almost crushed your fucking glasses,” he breathed. “You were like a goddamn centimeter away.”

Richie looked over his shoulder. His glasses were indeed just mere inches from him. He slipped his left arm from around Eddie’s back to grab them. Sloppily, he managed to get them on his face with one hand. They were extremely dirty, but thankfully unharmed otherwise.

He felt a weight lifted from him as he watched Eddie push himself up, over, and flop onto his back. The two laid there, staring up at the sky, which was now visible.

“You know, Eds,” Richie began, took a breath, bit his lip, blinked a couple times, and exhaled, “cars are probably gonna start honking at us.”

“What cars, fuckhead?”

Richie squinted. He craned his neck up and then to the left. “True,” he mumbled, taking note of the vacant streets.

If only his left hand might drift of its own volition to the right of him. Might just brush against something. Might confirm that this was really happening. They really were just laying in the road together, just to be there and nowhere else.

Done with watching the pink sky turn purple, Eddie pushed himself to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder at Richie with a slight sneer. Richie pushed out his lower lip and held out an arm. Turning his frown into a faint smile, Eddie grasped Richie’s forearm and pulled him up perfectly. From there they gathered their bikes and began wheeling them home.

A lot of time had passed since he’d last really spent time with Eddie. Richie took the time to examine every inch of him, taking him in before time took him away. His neck was wrapped in a scarlet scarf, and he donned a very nice-looking and fluffy-collared jacket. His jet black hair was swept to the left as usual, and he still had the scar from his broken arm.

It was nice. It was slow. Cold, with the addition of a winter’s sprinkling of snow. It was just them, their presence together. They didn’t to do this much, if at all.

Seniors often had other priorities like getting into college and getting those rare and sought after scholarships. Richie had planned on becoming an English major and moving out to L.A. Though they weren’t much, attitudes might be better out there than Derry. L.A. would certainly be more lively. He was always a jokester. Perhaps his talent would be more appreciated in a place where “beep, beep” didn’t mean “shut up.” He could refine it with an English degree.

Eddie never talked much about these things, but Richie at least knew he was going East coast, and probably Ivy League. Out of their broken group, despite falling for quite a many “gazebos,” Eddie was probably the smartest. At least he was to Richie.

When they approached Eddie’s house, Richie noticed that the driveway was clean, albeit freshly dusted with icy particles like diamonds. He grinned.

“So, you’ve been shoveling your driveway too?” Richie asked him, spitting blood as he did so.

“Not sure I understand the double entendre you’re going for,” Eddie smartly replied.

Richie shook his head. “No, it was a—uh, well, it was a genuine question.” He bit the inside of his cheek. How the hell did that go there? Hadn’t he expanded his jokebook beyond innuendo by this point? He supposed he didn’t hang out with Eddie enough to show it off.

“Yeah. I did,” Eddie answered, looking out at the frosted driveway. He mumbled something incoherent as his gaze trailed down to Richie’s hand. “Hey!” he suddenly shouted, jumping back and nearly dropping hold of his bike.

“What?” Richie examined his hands. They looked fine to him. But of course, what was fine to him, and what was fine to Eddie were often two very, very different things. And when Eddie simply dropped his bike and looked himself over, Richie again asked, “What?

“Your fucking—“ Eddie cut himself off without realizing as he continued to pore over every aspect of his body. He grasped at his salmon polo, aggravated and looking for something. “Your—“

“My?” Richie raised a brow.

“Your hand! It’s fucking bloody! And you’ve probably got it somewhere on my shirt!” Eddie yelled.

Typical. Richie sighed and let go of his bike. While Eddie hyperventilated, distracted with himself, Richie grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. There was a bloody handprint on the back of his shirt, and there was blood on the back of his neck. The blood on his hand had dried by now, so nothing came off on Eddie’s shoulder. And he could lie, come off as a liar, and be found out to be a liar later even after denying it. Or, he could come clean and endure Eddie’s screaming. He’d have to settle for the latter.

“You’ve got a bit of my blood on your neck and back.”

“There’s some on my arm. It’s dribbling down your chin as well,” Eddie said between his teeth, trying his best to glare back at Richie.

Richie’d only barely noticed when he spoke. He wiped an arm across his face. Blood was smeared across his forearm. Well, he supposed that made sense.

“Fuck. Uh...” he didn’t quite know what to say about it except the obvious. His nose was bleeding and probably broken.

Eddie groaned, picked his bike back up, and rolled it up to the first step by the rose bushes which Richie knew had to be so meticulously cared for judging by the vibrant pinks of the flowers. With the brake-stand kicked down, Eddie stomped his way back over to Richie.

“Park your bike by the garage and come in when I open it. I’ll fix your nose, but you have to tell me what in the fuck freaked you out at the arcade,” he demanded.

Richie furrowed his brow. A wave of heat struck him as he recalled the bleeding cabinet and other things that had freaked him out at the arcade in the past. He adjusted his glasses, giving them a maroon thumbprint on the lens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said quietly.

Turning his head with a squint, Eddie gave a short scoff. “I’m not an idiot, Richie. Don’t treat me like I am.”

“I don’t!” Richie exclaimed. He sighed. “I don’t,” he said softer. “Eds, it’s not important. And how come you were out anyway?”

Eddie looked at his shoes. “We’ll talk about it later. Just park your bike like I said.”

Ever patient, Richie watched as Eddie hopped over to his front door, and after clumsily bringing forth his house keys, disappeared through into his home. That was his cue. He parked his bike just feet away from the garage and waited for the door to open. As he did so, he wondered what he would even say to Eddie. How could he even begin to describe the funky goings-ons at the arcade? IT wasn’t back. It was too soon for IT to be back in their lives, he felt, though they all still felt his crimson shadow looming over the town. Today was something different. Something stranger.

The garage door lifted with a long and drawn out whir. Slowly, the dark space was revealed, and so too was Eddie, in a new powder blue polo, and holding the button down with a bored expression. That expression changed to frantic when his eyes caught Richie’s.

“My fucking god!” Eddie yelled when he saw the red that had amassed since he’d been gone. He groped around in the fanny pack he’d come back with, produced a rag and threw it at Richie, who held it against his mouth and nose.

The garage was absent of any cars, and as such, Richie determined Mrs. Kaspbrak was away for whatever reason. There were dusty toolboxes on the table against the back wall. Dusty tools hung from the wall as well. There was an old and worn refrigerator in the corner. Steps led down from the house, sitting against the foundation. A hammock hung on the left wall. It was nearly identical to the one in the old Loser’s Hideout. When did he get that, and what was the point without—

Obscuring his view of the hammock and interrupting his thoughts, Eddie walked briskly toward the table at the back and whipped out another(probably a back-up) rag from his pocket animatedly. He dusted off the table as if his life depended on it, and since it was Eddie, he probably believed that it did. He hunched over his finished work and hummed.

“If you could get your ass over here, I could avoid the asthma attack I’m probably going to get with all these dust particles in the air now,” Eddie said.

Like a whipped pup, Richie silently walked over to Eddie. Not that he could say anything without gargling with blood anyway. He was quite honestly looking forward to the reaction he would get from Eddie when he removed the rag. Perhaps a scream, and if he was lucky, a hilariously exaggerated expression.

Richie didn’t expect Eddie to just fix his broken nose, if it was broken at all. Eddie wasn’t a doctor, but if anyone his age could be a doctor, it would be Eddie. All Eddie managed to do, however, was very tenderly put medical tape on Richie’s nose after very, very, very painfully snapping it back into place. Revenge for when they were thirteen, he supposed, not that he believed Eddie enjoyed the pain any more than he did. Eddie gave him a ziploc bag of ice, and that was that.

Cautiously, Richie removed the rag from his mouth. Frustrated with the mess still remaining, Eddie snatched the rag from Richie’s hands and attempted a better job. Enveloped in his work, Eddie narrowed his eyes on the rag. It was interesting to see him get lost in the work, tongue poked out and dark brows furrowed. When he was done, Richie almost wanted to lean down and kiss him, thanking him in a joking manner. It wouldn’t have been funny without the blood though. Less of a reaction. At least, less chance of a good reaction. But he wasn’t sure if it was a joke, anyway. In fact, it gave him butterflies as he thought about it.

“Thanks,” Richie said when Eddie was finally done being a mother hen. He smiled, teeth bloody, and Eddie would’ve pounced, but Richie stepped back quickly. He cleared his throat. “So, what were you doing going to the arcade?”

Eddie tossed the rag on the table, crossed his arms, and cocked his head. “And what were you doing running from the arcade?”

“Touché.” Richie pouted, looking away. He needed Eddie’s information first. He might get too wrapped up in his own. “Rock-paper-scissors,” he suggested.

“We’re not children anymore,” Eddie argued.

“Rock-paper-scissors!” Richie stated again because, goddamnit, who outgrew rock-paper-scissors?

“Fucking fine!” Eddie groaned up at the roof. “You are so childish, Richie Tozier!”

They held a flat hand out, bouncing their fists three times. Eddie held out scissors, and Richie held out a finger gun.

“Dude. No.”

“It’s rock, paper, scissors, shoot. I chose shoot,” Richie reasoned.

“Fuck you, that’s not how it works!”

“I shot your scissors. I won. Tell me why you were going to the arcade.”

“Who said I was even going to the arcade? What was I gonna do there? See you?” Eddie asked jeeringly.

Richie’s heart panged against his will. His breath hitched. “Maybe,” he whispered, gently shaking his head with a shrug.

Looking regretful, Eddie raised a brow with his mouth ajar. “F—fuck. Sorry, I—“ he stammered, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean that. I swear I didn’t, Richie.”

“Sure,” Richie agreed half-heartedly, but he couldn’t hide the hurt in his voice.

“Fuck. I— hm.” Eddie looked all over the place, starting a sentence and stopping again, over and over. It was somewhat hard to watch him get torn up like this.

“Where were you going?” Richie asked to remind him of the conversation.

“Behind the arcade,” Eddie answered, nodding to Richie as a thanks for getting him back on track. “I was going behind the arcade. You know the physics teacher?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, knowing he existed, though he didn’t know his name, never having taken the class or any of the other optional science and math classes he taught.

“Right, well, we got him off-topic before break and he was talking about this guy who used to work behind the arcade. He wasn’t a certified electrician, but he knew his way around an arcade cabinet. When they were shut down, he would fix them.”

A light bulb went off. In his seven years of going to the arcade, Richie knew exactly who he was talking about. “Mr. Macon?” he asked. He’d seen the handlebar-mustachioed middle-aged man, always in a patterned button-up, which he tucked into acid-washed jeans that really were fifteen years too young for him. Richie would be remiss to leave out Macon of his list of fashion influences. His shirts always looked like he’d gathered the patterning off a bowling alley and put it in his wardrobe. Richie managed to come into the arcade enough to snag a yellow button-up that Macon just so happened to leave on a cabinet.

“Yeah. Him.” Eddie exhaled. This was going to be a long one. “He’s dead, you know. Died just after school started back. I don’t see you reading a paper anytime soon. Or watching the news, for that matter.”

True. And, well, Richie hadn’t seen him lately, but that would’ve been quite a grim assumption. He had preferred to think he was let off. So he shrugged.

“As much as you go there? You hadn’t even thought?” Eddie shook his head. “Anyway, Mr. Boltzmann said it was really strange. People hadn’t seen him for a while, I guess, and he’d been getting calls he hadn’t answered. Someone checked on him in the back of the arcade, and, well, they found his work on the old PAC-Man machine. Looked fine, y’know. He did a real bang-up job, and—“ Eddie narrowed his eyes. Richie couldn’t help but laugh. “What?”

“‘A real bang-up job,’” Richie snickered.

“Fuck you. They found the guy goddamn hollowed out! Hollowed the fuck out! Not a single goddamn organ in him. His Lungs—gone. Heart—gone. Brain—gone!” Eddie yelled for emphasis.

“What the fuck?”

“Exactly! What the fuck! Well, this is the fuck. They speculate that someone killed him and put his organs in the PAC-Man cabinet. But who would do that?”

Though he didn’t have the answer to Eddie’s question, his anecdote certainly put things into perspective. The puzzle pieces were starting to come together. So that just begged the question: was it a message? Was it a warning? Was it a cry for help? Richie hummed as he let his mind wander.

“So you’re still just hanging around the arcade, then?” Eddie ventured. “You ever think about maybe just getting a Gameboy?”

“Yeah, I have one, but it’s not at all the same quality. Lately, I’ve been trying to figure out all the fatalities in the new Mortal Kombat,” Richie explained. He bit his lip. “Uh, today though... I just played a little PAC-Man, and uh... blood started seeping from the console.”

“And that fucked you up?” Eddie remarked.

Richie combed a hand through his hair. “Uh... yeah,” he said, rather dumbfounded.

“We’ve marched into Hell, looked Satan in the eye, and managed to walk back out with our eyeballs in place. How the fuck is this something that freaks you out?”

Richie gaped. He threw his head back with a scoff. “For starters, Eds, this felt actually real. This one felt like it wasn’t... IT. The blood... it was like... it was really there. It wasn’t just my imagination or a hallucination. And besides, that shit is still fucking scary today!” He gestured wildly to nothing in particular. “All of that shit!”

“Maybe—“

“No! Not fucking maybe! It fucking is!” Richie found himself screaming. Eddie flinched, obviously regretting whatever weird emotion he’d just uncovered. Richie crossed his arms as if cold. “Fuck, Eds. It’s just not natural. It doesn’t make sense.”

“You know, Richie...” Eddie put his hands on his hips. He tapped his foot a couple times. “They say... fuck...”

“People do say ‘fuck,’” Richie joked, taking advantage of Eddie’s faulty memory at the moment.

Eddie chuckled breathlessly. “Yeah, but... they also say that no-one who ever dies in Derry? Is ever really dead,” Eddie managed to put together. He shrugged. “So I... I just wanted to see if it was true what they said. If his organs were really living on inside the machine.”

“Well, sorry I ran into you,” Richie apologized sincerely, though he knew it wasn’t really any fault of his own.

“No, I’m glad actually. I would’ve taken the whole bloody cabinet thing worse, I think.” Eddie smiled down at his shoes. “Do you...” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to investigate this together?”

Richie blinked. His immediate thought was “yes of fucking course,” but he refrained from articulating this. He wasn’t sure what he was getting into. “You mean like, breaking apart the arcade property to see if there’s a man’s parts inside it?”

Eddie nodded with pursed lips. “Well, yeah, but when you put it that way, it makes it sound like a crime.”

Which it was, but Richie wasn’t going to complain. He didn’t care what was going on, just so long as it involved Eddie.

So, he answered, “Yes.” He smirked. “Of fucking course I want to do crimes with you.” And he took immense joy in the wide grin he’d gotten from Eddie.

🕹️🕹️

“So is your mom out of town?” Richie asked, just trying to make whatever conversation he could while he had Eddie around.

Eddie nodded, confirming his suspicions. “Yeah. For the week. My aunt’s sick. Took a few days to convince her that I’d be fine on my own.”

“You’re seventeen,” Richie noted. “And on top of that, it’s just a day and a bit til Christmas.”

“I know.”

“We-ell,” Richie sing-songed. He looked up at the black and starless night. “Sucks. I was gonna give her this,” he said, and pulled a packet out of his pants pocket, stopping Eddie dead in his tracks.

“Richie! What the fuck are you doing with that shit?” Eddie screamed, prompting Richie to move toward him, a hand hovering near his mouth to quiet him should he get a decibel louder. Eddie forced his hand down, brown eyes wide and clearly appalled. “People don’t just carry around condoms, Richie!”

“I do.” Richie shrugged. He reluctantly slipped his wrist from Eddie’s grip and began walking again.

“But why?”

“Just in case.”

“Of what?” Eddie asked, growing more exasperated.

“Y’know.”

“No, I don’t!”

Richie whipped around and put a finger to his lips. It was the dead of night, and if Eddie wasn’t about to raise the dead with his shrilling, he was certainly close as hell. If they were found roaming the streets at night, people might think something suspicious was happening, and since they were trying to break into an arcade, that was probably the biggest of their concerns.

“I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would carry around a spare condom, Richie. Enlighten me, please,” Eddie said measuredly.

But Richie shrugged again. He really didn’t have a particular reason. He’d found it on a dresser in the living room, misplaced. Slipped it in his pocket one day and he just kept it to have. Was it good luck? Was it for a well-timed joke? Sometimes he just liked knowing it was there, not that he’d ever use it. He used to carry around an arcade token. He supposed having this in his pocket replaced the feeling.

They continued on in a tense silence, moreso on Eddie’s part. Richie always tried to attain a quota of laid-backness in his gait. He let his shoulders drop, hands settle in his pockets, and muscles unclench. Eddie, he knew, was in constant vigilance for the next thing to come around the corner and kill him. Hard way to live, he felt. But no amount of advice was going to miraculously make Eddie change. And he wasn’t interested in trying. Someone had to be on watch for the police, at least. Richie wasn’t sure he was in the right mindset tonight.

Had he forgotten at moments why they were even out there? Walking the streets in the cold winter night? Yes, he had. Nothing really mattered aside from the person he was with. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with bringing him to the arcade, a place of many miserable memories, but who was he to refuse Eddie of his curiosity? He’d already persuaded Richie to snatch the crowbar from the Tozier garage. Once you had a crowbar, there was no backing down from a crime.

“Are you sure we couldn’t have just biked or driven?” Richie asked tiredly.

“Our bikes are recognizable. When people around here see bikes, they assume it’s us,” Eddie explained.

“Well, it saves on fuel costs.”

“And as for driving, that would honestly be the dumbest way to blow our cover. Your bright-ass flaming red mustang? In these streets? At this time of night? Richie, you have to be kidding me,” Eddie groaned. He threw up his hand after prying it off his face. “You’re lucky I let you wear that fucking shirt.”

Richie pulled at the sides of his open Hawaiian button-up. It was bright red with a blue feather patterning, resembling the one Tom Selleck wore in Magnum P.I. “This is my lucky one,” Richie mumbled into his undershirt.

“Better be,” Eddie muttered.

“You know, you really should get your license. Drive around the olds-mom-bile,” Richie said with a couple finger guns and a wink. He considered adding a fake adage about losing his virginity in it, but he figured he’d prodded that running joke enough.

“Fuck you,” Eddie laughed. “I’m not interested in dipping my toes in the auto accident pool. Otherwise, I think I’d be carpooling with you of a morning in that speed demon you call a car,” he said with a quick raise of the brows.

Richie shook his head with a smile. Oh the places they’d go if only Eddie would let him drive him around. He’d drive all the way to California, just he and Eddie, if only. If only, if only, if only.

“It’s my chick magnet,” he made up a quick response so as to not tip Eddie off to his wandering mind.

“I don’t see any flocking,” Eddie quipped.

“They just haven’t noticed yet.” But even Richie didn’t believe that. He knew well enough why it wasn’t the chick magnet he had just proclaimed it to be. The car was nothing without its driver.

Eddie stopped and crossed his arms. He chuckled slightly. “Richie, I don’t know if you’ve noticed—because your wardrobe certainly has—but most people think you’re—“

And he stopped mid-sentence, because he knew. If Richie’s knitted brow, pulled frown, and pinned shoulders said anything, they said to stop.

Eddie moved to say something else, something similar; but, he lost the thought somewhere before it entered his mouth.

“Don’t,” Richie warned, voice noticeably darkened. He even scared himself at this point.

“Richie,” Eddie said, slightly scolding. He groaned and stomped his foot, realizing his mistake. “Oh fuck.”

Done with the conversation, Richie continued walking, though Eddie remained stationary.

“Hey!” Eddie called after him. He picked up the pace. “Fuck— fuck, Richie. Richie, I didn’t mean it,” he pleaded behind him.

Richie whipped around on his heel, coming face to face with Eddie, who stopped on a dime, mere breaths away. “You did,” Richie hissed. “You obviously did. Nut the fuck up, Eds, and own what you said.”

Eddie swallowed. “Goddamnit, I was just joking.”

“You weren’t.”

“Can we just focus on the mission?”

“I’ll try.” Richie turned around and began walking again.

He looked up at the black night. So dark. No moon. No stars. No sound except their sneakers padding on the sidewalk.

He was at his limit. He cleared his throat and found his voice was dry. “You’ve really pushed me today. I think it bears saying, y’know,” he choked, trying to fight tears.

“It does. I can’t apologize enough, really.” Eddie sighed. “You know, Rich, I really missed you. More than Bill or anyone,” he admitted quietly.

And despite everything, Richie grinned from ear to ear, certain that Eddie couldn’t see him due to his brisk pace. He looked down and bit his lip, trying not to focus on the warm that rushed to his cheeks. He almost feared the anxious pulse in his chest might give him away to the listening ear. Without thinking, he adjusted his shirt collar, hoping he might cover his heart.

“I know.”

He didn’t know, really. But it felt nice to think he did. And it certainly felt nice to really know.

🕹️🕹️

Dark, empty, and uninhabited was the arcade. It closed at nine at night, and currently, it was midnight, just so happening to make it Christmas Eve by proxy.

Just to try, Richie attempted to open the front doors. There was no opening them without any kind of force, though, and no matter how hard he pulled on the glass doors, Richie was nowhere near having the muscle to pry them open with his bare hands.

“Nice try, dumbass,” Eddie snarked. He threw Richie the crowbar. “Wanna give this a shot?”

Richie fumbled with the tool before finally firmly grasping it. He realized quickly that he had absolutely no idea what to do with this. He looked dumbly at the door. Where was this supposed to go

“I think I saw this somewhere in Home Alone...” he murmured.

“What?” Eddie squinted and shook his head. “Where?”

“Somewhere in Home Alone.”

“No, where in Home Alone?” Eddie asked again, rather densely.

“Somewhere,” Richie grinned.

Eddie groaned at the sky. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he screamed, getting louder with each word. “Just open the goddamn door!” he screeched.

“Close your goddamn mouth!” Richie yelled, trying, but failing to match his high pitch.

Cursing under his breath, Richie slipped the crowbar in-between the crack of the doors, getting it just above the handles. He looked over his shoulder as if someone was going to be watching them perform this crime at this time of night. There was naught but the empty shops along Main Street. He tugged at the door to no avail. The crowbar didn’t even have a good grip, slipping out.

“I need you to kick this in.” Richie gestured to the end of the crowbar.

“Why?”

“You’ve got good kicks,” Richie answered quickly. It was a little hard to ignore how much Eddie liked to kick things.

Eddie moved to say something, somehow correct him on the truth, but stopped himself. “I do have good kicks,” he agreed as if he hadn’t realized before.

So Richie tried to insert the crowbar again, managing to hover it over the handles. Eddie kicked the handle of the crowbar between the rectangular door handles. Richie pulled again, and this time, something broke in the lock, and the door creaked open,

“Holy fuck, Rich’. You did it,” Eddie said, breathless.

“_We_,” Richie corrected, though he did most of the work. Just felt good to see Eddie smile about something. He let his right hand slide over the door. He gestured in with his left. “Ladies first.”

Eddie stayed where he was, swinging his right leg back and forth as if it was any more sore than Richie’s forearms. He looked between Richie and the black void of the arcade. “So why aren’t you moving?”

Richie sighed, hanging his head in defeat. “Fuck you.” And with that, he ventured in first.

There was nothing to be seen. The arcade was empty and closed. The machines were shut down, and there were no lights on to speak of. Richie knew there were no night watchmen because one: the arcade didn’t have the customers to support such a costly endeavor; and two: he’d often watched the arcade get shut down, typically being the last patron of the night. So there was no reason for the lights to be on, but damnit, it would’ve been nice.

From his frequent visits, Richie virtually knew the scope of the area. Two miniature palm trees sat by the door on either side. Seven cabinets were against the left wall, four in the middle row, and five at the back. In the upper righthand side, there was a prize corner where one could turn in tickets gained from some specific cabinets that Richie never really played or paid any attention to. He could get a hot pink squid hat with big googly eyes, but was it something he would die without? No. And so the only other thing of interest was a trio of more mini palm trees which lined the lower right hand corner of the arcade, hiding the main power switch to the regular patron’s eye. To say Richie had turned off the power and stormed out of the arcade after a particularly bad beatdown in Street Fighter only a couple times would be an understatement.

Like a blanket, the dark was suppressing. It almost felt like the shadow was physical, drapingover Richie as he waded through. He stretched out an arm through the trees to frisk around for the power switch.

There was a bang as a body collided with hard metal and a “Fuck!” from a distance within the arcade.

“Don’t do anything until I get the lights on!” Richie yelled from his corner.

Grasping at the wall, his hand finally groped the switch and turned it on.

The arcade sprang to life. Beeps and whirs sounded out, and cabinet screens became cornucopias and kaleidoscopes of technicolor magic. It was so tantalizing to listen and to watch as each one pealed out their own original theme and displayed their eye-poppingly colorful and enticing starting screens. Richie would’ve flipped it back off to start the mesmerizing process all over again, but he didn’t want to cause a stir to any random passerby or scare the shit out of Eddie, who was perched on a Galaga cabinet, swinging his legs.

Settling his hand back into his pocket, Richie moseyed over to the Galaga cabinet, which sat in the middle of the arcade. He leaned against its side, swinging his crowbar mindlessly and smiling up at Eddie for no particular reason. Eddie glanced down fondly for a second. He chuckled, also seemingly for no reason, gave Richie a soft kick to the mid-thigh, and then hopped off. Richie trailed him first with his eyes and soon after walked with him.

They stood together at the PAC-Man cabinet at the upper and leftmost corner of the arcade. Before tonight, the cabinet was simply the oldest in the arcade, refined and original. There was nothing like the old PAC-Man cabinet, and no one could tire of it. Now though, it was imposing. A certain decrepit look had dusted over it, despite no actual physical change having come to it.

Richie knelt down and bestowed the crowbar to Eddie, who gracefully accepted the weapon.

“I’ll start it up,” Richie said, moving to slip a quarter into the machine. He really just wanted to get some kind of gaming out of this experience. Otherwise, what was the point of being in an arcade? “If you want, we could play Mortal Kombat II after this,” he offered.

“I don’t know how to play,” Eddie mused with a tinge of disappointment.

“I’ll teach you,” Richie said off-handedly as if it was no big deal, which it wasn’t. He might even let him win the first round.

Eddie nodded with a small smile. Richie felt like he could just melt from the warmth of the small interaction.

Determined first to investigate Macon’s disappearance, Eddie stood at the side of the PAC-Man cabinet. There was a compartment at the side that all cabinets in the arcade had manually tacked on. It allowed the maintenance men to get into the cabinets quickly and pick apart or fix together certain wires. Macon’s handiwork was evident, and evidently, he was pretty good at what he did. Richie almost felt bad for prying the machine apart that the man had poured so much time into.

Quarter in and hand firmly settled around the joystick, Richie pressed the start button. A familiar series of bloops and whistles recognizable as the PAC-Man theme issued forth from the cabinet’s speakers, and the game began.

Tonight, there were too many things to think about, and they all converged into one topic. Though he tried to focus on grabbing the points and avoiding the ghosts, his mind wanted to wander about the subject of Eddie, as it usually did. He knew this wasn’t the time to do such a thing, and honestly it was quite embarrassing, but when else did he have the downtime to think about how nicely he fashioned? How his hair, even when adorned with the sparkle of snow, remained perfectly black as night and perfectly concise without a stray strand? How he so desperately wanted to share in the warmth of the red scarf draped around his shoulders? All these were just friendly things, he thought, and that’s all they would be. No need to bring up any other feelings. Until level five. Maybe then—

“Richie! Holy fucking hell!”

Blinky hot on his trail, PAC-Man melted into the abyss as Richie let go of the joystick. And when he turned his head, his stomach turned as well. The sight was, without a doubt, hard to look at, but it was just as hard to look away from.

Spilling out of the cabinet laid a foot of intestines, naturally pink and coated with a syrupy layer of blood, sometimes twice or more times over the deeper one got into the cabinet. Pulsing and squirming in the pile of intestines—a pile that twisted and breathed like boas sleeping on top of each other—were miscellaneous elliptical organs that pumped in unison. Richie didn’t pay enough attention in biology to be able to name them. As he stepped closer, he noticed that squelching veins had replaced the wires, blood circling through them as opposed to electric. Behind the veins sat a throbbing heart, valves and arteries pumping with life. Most disgustingly of all, two lungs hung from the top of the cavity, wheezing up and down. As they did so, the faint sound of jingling could be heard, quarters rising and falling with each groan the machine took. All in all, it was a bloody mess, and it was one that Richie was quite interested in shutting away.

“God, they really did—“ Richie put his hand over his mouth as he lurched forward not of his own volition “—hollow him the fuck out.”

“Yeah, it’s... kind of interesting in a way that someone could immortalize themselves like this,” Eddie mumbled. He began to shut the compartment back, but stopped midway, fist clenched on the metal so hard that he might bleed. His eyes were wide, and Richie couldn’t exactly tell why. He gave no hint.

But when the creaking became obvious, Richie quickly put together what was going on. A creeping feeling rose from his stomach to his throat, and he was very sure he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Eddie was staring right at whatever it was. Richie wasn’t so confident. He turned around as slow as he possibly could and was thankful for his lack of peripheral vision. So when it was finally in front of him—the army of skeletons whose “bones” were composed purely of chopped up and put back together veins, quarters, and breathing organ tissue, who would spill blood and guts from their chests as they moved—he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Like contortionists, they folded themselves out of the cabinet compartments. Eyeless and maws hanging open, they stiltedly made their way toward the two.

Deftly, Richie snatched Eddie away by one of the ends of his scarf, dragging him into the corner with him. In the haste of the action, Eddie dropped the crowbar, and Richie scrambled forward to pick it up. He wasn’t sure what he’d do against the twelve or thirteen of them with only one crowbar, but it was worth having. He used his free hand to hold Eddie’s. It was made a death grip by Eddie and the grip only tightened when Richie felt his face flush in return. If it meant his life or Eddie’s, Richie was damn sure that he would go down before he’d let his best friend. But he wasn’t going to complain if they went down together.

When one skeleton approached, staggering like a zombie with its hands outstretched, Richie charged like a mad bull against his fears and trepidation. He arched the crowbar over his head as he would a bat and took a swing at the monster’s jaw. The crowbar lodged itself within the target area like a spoon in jell-o, but with viscous blood and veins wrapping around the metal like slimy little red hands, tearing it from Richie’s grasp. Catching Richie unable to do anything but stare at the mishit, the monster backhanded him. Richie managed to stay on his feet, though he staggered backward, hand holding his newly sticky cheek. The skeleton tore the crowbar from its maw, ejecting a spurt of choppy gore onto the side of the PAC-Man cabinet. Richie latched onto Eddie, holding for dear life, hands roaming under his jacket and fingers clinging to his polo. Eddie wasn’t letting go anytime soon either, arms wrapped above Richie’s shoulders and head pressed into the crook of his neck.

“It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay—I promise,” Richie muttered, mostly to himself, but hoped he was just loud enough to assure Eddie.

But they were not okay. The monster tore Richie away from Eddie with a grip like a medical clamp, and tossed him away toward the sea of other disfigured and bloody monsters.

“Richie!” Eddie screamed from the corner, arms newly wrapped around himself and paralyzed by fear.

Hopelessness painted Richie’s face as he grabbed into the monster with just his bare and desperate hands, pulling and tearing apart the tissue and flinging away the quarters he pulled from it, hoping the monster would simply fall apart without the inorganic material. It didn’t, and instead loosened Richie from its stringy figure. With the crowbar arched over its shoulder in mimicry of Richie’s fighting stance, it heaved a couple change-filled breaths, and then swung.

All Richie could manage before impact was a pained and whimpering, “Eddie,” and

🕹️

Despite everything, he was still in one piece.

Richie propped himself up with the potted palm trees by the light switch. He managed to bring himself to a standing position, but fell into the trees, crashing against the wall.

His eyes drifted over the arcade. Everything around him was also still in one piece. Things were coming back to him in a haze, but now, looking over the perfectly normal cabinets, still colorful and happily chiming their themes, they didn’t seem real. Was it all just a hallucination then?

“Eddie,” he mumbled subconsciously. The first thing on his mind forever and always. “Eddie—where—“ he muttered, pushing himself out of the palm trees.

He spun himself around as if wading through a fog with no sense of direction. His eyes settled on the boy sitting on the Galaga cabinet and kicking his legs absentmindedly. And by god, he’d never been happier to see that asthmatic little shit.

“Eddie!” Richie called, a wave of relief washing over him as he did so, and darted toward him. But he stopped dead in the middle of his tracks upon looking him in his newly glossed over eyes. “Eds,” Richie murmured, every sense of hope and happiness bottoming out into despair.

Nothing was right about this picture in the slightest. Firstly, he had hung his jacket on the top of the Galaga cabinet. Secondly, he replaced his jacket with Richie’s lucky Hawaiian button-up, and Richie would’ve been remiss not to absolutely adore it on him. Thirdly, his eyes resembled an arcade screen if it had completely glitched out. The rest looked about right.

“Can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve brought me, Richie,” someone who was decidedly not Eddie said, adjusting his collar coolly. He brought one leg up to his chin and smirked. “New threads and a new vessel for the MK2 machine? Must be Christmas morning.”

“Christmas eve, actually,” Richie corrected. He looked down at his undershirt. He shoved his hands in his pockets, not deigning to look up. “You know, that is honestly my favorite button-up. I’d really like it back.”

“Oh...” the imposter hissed. “I don’t think so. See, I believe I recall leaving one of my shirts out here only for a little punk to pick it up and start wearing it around town.”

Richie shrugged. Out of all the names he could’ve picked, “punk” was decidedly welcomed. “In my defense, it was a really nice pattern,” Richie said quietly.

Not-Eddie sneered at him. “I’m surprised that this is what you’re concerned about. Not your friend’s livelihood? Or are you still scared to even so much as breathe in another boy’s direction?”

Richie froze. He swallowed. He felt barely able to breathe. That was four years ago. Nothing happened since. He wouldn’t let it happen again. The words still rung in his head to this day. He couldn’t even stand the fairer, more happy synonym to be tossed around. He was better off playing games alone, despite the enveloping loneliness. Less room to get hurt and less room for people to get the wrong idea. Though, even he had to admit that it wasn’t always the wrong idea.

But he wasn’t going to let his damaged pride be exposed for much longer. He quickly recomposed himself. “How much of a creep exactly are you? Or, I should say, were you, now that your actual body is rotting away in the PAC-Man machine?” he snarked, now realizing who he was dealing with.

Macon shoved off of the Galaga cabinet and strode over to Richie with all the confidence in the world. “And who are you to talk?”

Feeling exposed, Richie stepped back against the palm trees. “You can’t know that.”

“Can’t I? I’m only half-human. I’m also half-machine. Call it intuition and calculation,” Macon explained.

Richie grimaced up at the ceiling. He lowered himself into one of the pots, feeling like the dirt within them. If Eddie could’ve just stayed out of this Macon guy’s business, they could’ve been hanging out somewhere. Maybe they could’ve driven down to New York in his red mustang. Just them against the world. Hit up the hottest clubs. Party with some midgets and guys who live in garbage cans. Would’ve been nice. He didn’t care where it was as long as it was with Eddie. It could’ve been the back alley of Derry for fuck’s sake. Now, everything was miserable, and he was starting to get the feeling that he was in for a villainous monologue.

“You see—“ and there it was. The villainous monologue in the flesh. “This arcade is nothing without me and my innovations. I find that the human mind is a better computer opponent than the circuit board could ever spawn. And there was never any better maintenance man than myself. They were practically disposable. Might as well use them for something, right? Of course, these are things you should never tell your friends.” Macon hummed. He let out a brief laugh. “Drunk. I was drunk when I told him.”

“That’s great,” Richie muttered, fidgeting with shirt sleeve.

“So anyway, I was murdered by an old colleague. I’m sure you’re taking physics?” Macon quirked a brow.

“No. Eddie is.”

“His physics teacher murdered me in the middle of night.”

“Oh no.”

“And then shoved me in the PAC-Man cabinet.”

“Hey.” Richie raised a finger. He pointed it at Macon. “Don’t you think you deserved it?”

Macon cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “For bringing joy to the lives of children by shoving people into arcade cabinets?”

Richie squinted. “I fail to see how those two things correlate.”

“Who’s asking you, kid?”

“I don’t know. I guess the guy soliloquizing about his fucking maintenance man murder party?” Richie sprung to his feet. “And while we’re at it, can I have my fucking friend back?”

“No?” Macon snickered. He looked around the arcade as if there was an audience to laugh with him. “I put out a ‘Help Wanted’ sign for another maintenance man. Haven’t gotten any, but now I’ve got some young organs for Mortal Kombat II.”

Richie squirmed in place. “I hate that you said it like that.”

“Guess I’ll be giving you another reason to frequent this old arcade.”

“Oh, I really don’t like the way you said that either. Can you stop being a creepy old man in the body of my friend? In fact, can I just have my friend back in general? I’ll give you my lucky shirt. I’m sure Tom Selleck has breathed on it. Might be worth some arcade tokens.”

“Just friend?” he asked, picking out the one proverbial note in the whole proverbial song.

“Fuck you. I don’t need this right now. I’m about to rescind my shirt offer.”

Macon rounded on Richie, a dark look in his glowing technicolor eyes. “I don’t think you‘re comprehending the position that you’re in.”

There was nothing to be done, it seemed. All felt lost. A pit grew in Richie’s stomach. He grimaced down at the dirt he was gathering between his fingers. All he wanted to do was hang out with a friend. Nothing more. There was nothing more to it. When he died here—because he wasn’t leaving this place without a fight—they would put a marker on his grave, “all he wanted to do was hang out, and nothing more.” He didn’t expect anything more. No big revelation on Eddie’s part. No small revelation on his own. None to be had together. The road to Hell was paved with the words “just friends,” apparently, and Richie was now walking down it alone.

Alone.

Like he always was in the arcade, no matter how many other people were in there with him. No matter how many bodies laid within the cabinets. It was just him. Him and his thoughts.

But who was this asshole to take away the one beacon of hope he still had? The one person who, no matter what, wouldn’t judge him, even if his life depended on it? The one person who he, without a shadow of a fucking doubt, he would love (platonically, he assured himself) until the day he died on this bitch of an Earth?

“At least...” Richie sighed miserably. Dirt crumbled in his fingers as he made a fist. He furrowed his brow and shot Macon a dangerous look. “At least let me...”

He lost the words. His face twisted into a spiral of rage.

Richie suddenly stood up, tense and shaking with fury. “Let me play you in Mortal Kombat II! That way if I lose him it’s my fault! And not his.”

Really, he didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t for Macon to start laughing at him. This wasn’t a comedy show, and he wouldn’t have given the old fuck a ticket anyway.

“Are you joking?” Macon half-laughed, half-wheezed. “I’m half-human, and half-machine, you can’t beat me at an arcade game when I am the arcade game.”

“If you’re so confident, then fucking play me, pussy,” Richie challenged. It was an empty challenge. No amount of confidence in the world could stop him from playing arcade games the way he played them—mind wandering out of focus. This wasn’t the ideal deal with the devil, but he was going to roll with it.

Macon crossed his arms, smirk plastered on his face. “You know what? Fine. But if you try anything—“

“I’m gonna end up in the goddamn Pong cabinet. I get it.”

“Oh... no, actually. I was just going to kill you. I’m not going to give immortality out to just anybody,” Macon cackled as he walked toward the Mortal Kombat II. He stopped abruptly. “Besides, Jeff’s in the Pong cabinet. No one liked Jeff. He brought his ant farm to work every day. Talk about an unearned life.”

As Richie approached the purely mechanical Mortal Kombat II cabinet, he felt like a soldier going to war. Except of course, he wasn’t defending a country but his friend, and his fight was only a game of bloody arcade fighting. Still, as far as the metaphor for war went, he had the flashbacks to support it. Just having someone next to him at the cabinet made his skin crawl. If he wasn’t trying to pay attention to what was going on between Eddie and his possessor, he would’ve been on the lookout for any judging eyes.

With the appropriate credits given to the cabinet, the game sounded out a familiar theme, raunch with synth, condensed electric guitar, and the unforgettable guttural scream of “Mortal Kombat!” And then that followed with more sung and condensed electrical guitar. It was enough to hype anyone up. This was saying nothing about the carnage on the title screen, hiding nothing about the gory 16-bit fun of the game.

Yet, all Richie could think about was he fact that, even though Eddie was right next to him, he wasn’t really. And if he fucked everything up, he never would be.

Thankfully, he was pretty confident in his choice of Sub-Zero to play as. Scorpion was cool enough, but he preferred the distance game that Sub-Zero’s ice moves allowed for.

Richie threw his head back at Macon’s character choice. The character was completely shadowed. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Secret character,” Macon answered. “Perks of being half-machine is access to hacking.”

“His name is ‘Noob’? You’re playing a character named ‘Noob’?” Richie had to laugh.

With Jade appearing and disappearing on screen to start the match, the two began their virtual spar. Immediately, a switch flipped in the back of Richie’s mind, and he found himself once again lost in the wilderness of his thoughts, secluded in the darkest depths. His eyes were pointedly focused on the game, but his brain was somewhere else, perhaps living out the fantasy of living in a New York City condo. Or maybe an old farmhouse in Louisiana. He hadn’t thought about the party scene much, but New Orleans seemed fun. Eddie was more reserved, and so maybe this was why it didn’t cross his mind. But if he was being honest with himself, he really wouldn’t have minded a cold night in South Dakota(because why not), wrapped up in a quilt on their old couch they’d probably get from an IKEA, sitting in front of the hearth that would come with their small cabin home, sipping stovetop hot chocolate, with a small lap dog seated on Eddie’s hip, Richie leaning against the arm of the couch, and the two slowly, but surely, leaning into each other, and

Oh hey. He won the first round. Great. Only had to do that one more time and he was good to go.

“That was just dumb luck,” Macon excused.

Richie squinted at the paused game. “You sat and spammed the punch button.”

“It was the best decision I could calculate at the time. Now I know your playing style. I can make this a real Hell,” Macon relished in his scheming. It was starting to become funny to see the evilness coming from Eddie. It was all just a tad cheesy, if not utterly horrifying that this could go downhill very, very, very quickly if Richie wasn’t careful.

“Bring it on, Cabinet Man.” Richie smirked, donning a new mask of confidence.

Richie tried his best to keep his head in the game. Any point where his mind would wander to the small town Nevada café just outside of Las Vegas where he would work while studying comedy acts and come home to Eddie who would have the day off from the pharmacy, Richie would try to suppress it. And with an air kick to the head, Sub-Zero was down. As red took up Sub-Zero’s entire healthbar, a gold medal appeared underneath Noob’s. They were officially tied up. Only one round remained between them. Suddenly, Richie felt paralyzed. For what was probably the hundredth time in his life, he didn’t know what to do, and this time, it was magnified to a million degrees.

So he was crying now. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, and he heaved with each breath he took. If the game wasn’t paused, he would’ve had to play through wet eyes. His opponent was gracious enough to give him breakdown time. He shook as he sobbed silently, arm over his eyes.

“Let me know when you’re done trying to appeal to the human side of me to manipulate me into losing because I feel just so badly for you,” Macon jeered. He dragged a finger down the side of his cheek. “Look at these authentic tears, just flowing out of my eyes.”

Richie tried to look at him through the tears. “Can’t I just see him? One last time?”

Macon’s mouth formed an “o.” He pressed his lips together, slightly shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be able to do that for long.”

“I don’t care,” Richie cried. “I just have to tell him something. Just one thing. Please.”

“That’s only fair, I suppose. You might have a few seconds,” Macon said.

They turned to face each other. Richie was much less than composed. The possessor’s eyes closed, and when they opened again, he was gone. Those glossed over eyes were replaced with simple bright brown-irised ones. The snarky expression was replaced with a perfectly calm composure. It was Eddie, and Richie wanted to cry harder.

“Eds,” he whined, so unbelievably sad, and so unbelievably happy at the same time. He reached out to Eddie’s cheek, who flinched, but didn’t stop him. He never did. Instead, he leaned into it, though he held puzzled expression.

“What’s going on?” Eddie asked, giving the arcade a slow look around. His eyes settled back on Richie warmly, and a smile perked his cheeks. It was like staring into the sun. It was such a rare, small smile. A smile reserved for him. Richie was sure his heart was doing flips.

“So, basically, curiosity is threatening to kill the cat right now. I’m trying to unshoot the shit, and if I can’t do that, then I really have to tell you something and...” Richie’s stomach tied itself into a knot. “... I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Eddie’s brows came together. “Richie. It’s okay.”

“Then you should know...” Richie tongued his lips. “I fucked your mom.”

Eddie laughed as if it was the first time he’d heard Richie say that. Richie would say it over and over if it meant seeing his face scrunch up into the most adorable smile. Bringing his other hand over to Eddie’s other rosy cheek, Richie softly laughed along with him. There was no time like the present. He’d had five years in the arcade to think it over and think it over and never do it. He always expected it to happen twenty years later at their high school reunion after a particularly blasted night. Maybe even on a summer trip to Los Angeles, granted they finally became fed up with Derry and decided to abandon everything they knew to start a life together as friends, maybe more.

But now was the perfect time, he decided. And he craned his head down, closed his eyes, lifted his brows, parted his lips, and

“What in the fuck are you doing?”

Richie found his head suddenly pushed back, hand over his mouth. His heart stopped, and his mind went blank. His chest heaved up and down in a panic. He didn’t mean to do that. He shouldn’t have done that. But he had to do that. Why? He didn’t know. But he did know. He knew well enough why he had to do that.

He began to ease his breathing once he realized that the boy in front of him had glossy eyes. Even with as venomous as the words were and with as much judgement as they eyes held, they at the very least did not belong to Eddie. Nothing would’ve been worse than... well. A bunch of words circled around in his head, each worse than the first, and if they started coming out of Eddie’s mouth, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.

“Can we get back to playing for this kid’s life?” Macon asked rhetorically.

Richie nodded, biting his lip. “Sure.” He turned back to the game, head swimming with every thought he’d never let even dare to surface. How in the fuck was he supposed to focus when he just tried to kiss his lifelong crush and

He was so close. And who knows, maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe things would turn out for the better if he just stepped up. Maybe that cabin in South Dakota, that condo in New York City, that Nevadan part-time comedian-pharmacy life, that Louisiana farmhouse, or that Los Angeles roadtrip across the country... maybe they were possible. Because he loved someone. Loved them a lot. And goddamnit, what conquered all but love? Isn’t that what the movies always said? That was his truth, and goddamn it he was going to speak it into existence.

“So, hey, Mr. Macon,” Richie began, a smile glued to his lips. “I know you don’t really give a shit about my life, but can I rant for a second?”

“I’d rather you not,” Macon replied, fully invested in the game. He’d already gotten Sub-Zero down to half health where Noob was at three-quarters.

“Well, anyway, there’s this boy—you know, the one you’re so skillfully possessing—and I really, really, really, really, really, really, really like him. Like a lot.”

“Stop talking. Start playing,” Macon demanded as he spammed the neutral punch. It wasn’t getting him anywhere.

“I am playing, don’t worry. Anyway, so he’s basically my favorite person in the world to annoy. He just gets this funny face like—“ Richie tried to mimic the scrunched up face that Eddie got when he’d joke about tetanus or some stupid shit Eddie was overly concerned with “—and every time he does it, I just get like these butterflies, you know? And he doesn’t think I’m weird. I mean, he does, because I am. But not weird in a bad way. He knows I’m annoying. I can say anything I want, and he just accepts that.”

“Stop. Talking.”

Noob was down to half-health, and Sub-Zero was just a little bit lower.

“Honestly, its amazing. I could just walk up to him and be like, ‘dude I just fucked your mom with my magnum dong’ and he’d just be like—“ he began talking in a ridiculously high pitch—“‘yeah, right, dumbass.’” He laughed regularly. “And then he’d just suck in all that albuterol in his fucking inhaler like it’s fucking crack cocaine. Would Bill be like that? No. Hardass Stan? Absolutely not. Stan would blanch so hard if I said something like that and he’s already pretty pale. But Eddie? Eddie’d just be like, ‘well, I fucked your whole family, headass’—“ Richie took his hand off the buttons for a second to pretend to use an inhaler, overexaggeratedly of course “—and honestly, that really fucks.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Macon whined. Noob was down to quarter health.

“Oh and don’t even get me started on how much I fucking love his stupid fanny packs. That shit’s like a goddamn bag of holding. Who knows what’s in there? Flashlight? Band-aids? Deck of many things? Cucumber fashioned into a dildo? A will to live? Gun? Bees? One time, he pulled out a fucking scalpel. And where the hell did he get that? Who knows? And goddamnit, I love that!”

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Fuck! Stop talking!”

“Mm! Oh and can I just say that Eddie has the brownest motherfucking eyes? So softly and darkly brown. And holy fucking hell— if I don’t want to kiss him in every place every minute of every day, then I’m fucking straight up pulling the proverbial wool right over my unbelievably heart-filled eyes. I love him.” He smiled down at his and Eddie’s hands, the closeness of them. “I really do.

Richie smirked as he heard the “Finish Him” that sounded out when the opponent was defeated. Now was the time for the best part of the game. With the knowledge he had accrued over the summer of figuring out the button combinations for each and everyone of the characters’ moves, he’d perfected Sub-Zero’s. With all the happiness in the world, he watched as Sub-Zero shot an ice grenade at Noob, exploding the shadowy ninja from top up, spraying blood and bones all over the screen. Sub-Zero raised his arms in victory, and the machine growled darkly, “Fatality.”

To say that Richie simply celebrated his victory would be the understatement of the year. He screamed at the top of his lungs, barely staying on the ground as he jumped all over the place excitedly. He grabbed Eddie around the shoulders and jumped with him, not realizing that he hadn’t exactly gotten his friend back yet.

“Stop! Stop!” Macon, who still was not Eddie, yelled.

Richie stepped back and away from him.

Focusing on something, Macon’s arm was outstretched. Like Thor’s hammer, the crowbar that started all this flew into his open palm.

“If I can’t have your friend, then I will have my vessel, one way or another. You may have saved your friend—or crush, or lover, or whatever—but you can’t save everybody, kid.”

Before Richie could even so much as respond, Macon swung into the cabinet’s screen, and as if it directly affected him, Richie blacked out.

🕹️🕹️

To be fair, he hadn’t ate or drank anything in a few hours, but he would’ve preferred to have chalked it up to paranormal spookiness.

So when he sat up from laying against the Mortal Kombat II cabinet, he realized that things were back to as normal as they could possibly be. And if he wasn’t mistaken, there, laying in the middle of the floor, was Eddie, still wearing Richie’s Hawaiian shirt, but definitely just Eddie. At least Richie was confident that he was just Eddie. It made sense.

Richie stumbled up and over to Eddie, ending up falling over and just laying next to him. He brushed his cheek and held the tips of his fingers under Eddie’s chin. When Eddie opened his perfectly normal eyes, Richie retracted his hand as if he’d just gotten burnt. Eddie chuckled in response and poked Richie on the nose, to which, Richie screamed because goddamnit his nose was still fucking broken, holy shit

“Fuck me!” he yelled, holding his face, though no blood was streaming.

“That’s what your mom said before I went down on her,” Eddie laughed obnoxiously. Richie refrained from such, giving a roll of the eyes instead.

Not willing to wait around for Richie to stop squirming in pain on the floor, Eddie got to his feet and held out his hands. Richie grasped one of Eddie’s arms while holding his nose with his other. Eddie pulled him up less than gracefully, and if not for Richie’s hand over his nose and mouth, something might have happened. But maybe it was for the better that it didn’t.

“Hey, how come you took your shirt off?” Eddie asked. He looked down at his own outfit. “What in the fuck?”

Richie looked up at the Galaga cabinet. Eddie’s jacket was still hanging on it. He took it and put it on. Might as well have since Eddie was still wearing his shirt.

“Well, Eds, to put it in your words, this is the fuck. You were possessed by the PAC-Man guy and he just so happened to have my same fashion tastes.” Richie looked Eddie up and down. “It looks really good on you though. Maybe you can finally land yourself a girl with that.”

“Yeah right.” Eddie put his hand over his cheek, trying to hide the pink that appeared there. “Anyway, this is your lucky shirt. I can’t take your lucky shirt.”

Richie smiled fondly. “You deserve it. You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“So have you,” Eddie argued, pulling his scarf above his mouth. His eyes trailed over to the PAC-Man cabinet. “This is really all my fault.”

“It’s not. In a way, I think I had some fun. I had to play Mortal Kombat II for your life. I don’t think I’ll ever play it again, though. I might just make your house my hangout from here on.”

Eddie buried his nose in his scarf and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d like that,” he murmured, probably hoping Richie wouldn’t hear him. But he did, and goddamn was his face red and smile wide.

Just to marvel at the horrific and traumatic experience they’d just had, the two walked over to the PAC-Man cabinet.

“Last thing he said was that he was going to try to abduct someone else for the MK2 machine,” Richie said emptily. He kicked the carpet without much force.

Eddie looked up at him silently.

Laying against its side, the crowbar was perfectly clean as if nothing ever happened. Eddie picked it up with strange resolve. He glared at the cabinet. With the crowbar, he wrenched open the compartment where the dead man’s guts spilled out. Richie ran toward the potted palm by the door to spill his own guts. He came back to see Eddie force the crowbar into the one of the pulsating organs, which stopped pulsating when he jerked it back. Using the crowbar as a pen, he wrote in blood, “Fuck you,” in a neat enough cursive for the tool.

“Help me fuck this fucker over!” Eddie demanded of Richie, who was happy to oblige.

With a freshly incensed vendetta against the PAC-Man cabinet, Eddie used the crowbar to dent the machine all over and pull the compartment door off completely. Out of pure curiosity, Richie ducked into it to see what else may have been there in the gore and pulled out a bloody flamingo-patterned button-up—which was a steal, really—and nabbed a few free quarters for good measure as well. Meanwhile, Eddie took a few swings at the cabinet’s screen, shattering it into pieces. The two took turns kicking the cabinet, creating their own little rhythm. Together, they combined their strength and pushed the cabinet over onto its side, pulling the plug right out of the wall.

From the machine, blood leaked, puddling around their sneakers. And they relished in it.

After flipping the main power switch off, Richie departed from the arcade, stepping out of the darkness to join Eddie outside.

“So what now?” Eddie asked, twirling the crowbar.

Richie shrugged. He peered down at his bloody undershirt. “If it’s alright, I think I’d like to shower at yours.”

“And get your germs all over my shower?” Eddie’s voice cracked.

“Well, you know what’s the best way to fight against them?” Richie posed.

Eddie squinted. “Sterilization?”

Richie groaned. “For as many shots as you get—“ He cleared his throat. “Vaccinations, Eds. I mean vaccinations. Like where they just like, give you the shit and somehow expect you not to get sick from it?”

“What the fuck does that have to do with you getting your motherfucking germs in my shower?”

Richie smiled, feeling confident about the punchline of his joke. He stopped, and in turn, so did Eddie. As Richie moved toward Eddie, the boy tensed, expecting the worse. And for as anxious as he felt, Richie was also the most confident in his life as he’d ever been. Tilting his head down and to the left, heart beating a mile a second, he kissed Eddie on the temple. The two calmed, each reaching out to hold the other in the position.

It might have been a nice and quiet moment, had circumstances not progressed into Richie jokingly sticking his tongue out to lick Eddie across the forehead.

“Now you’re vaccinated! You’re welcome!” Richie yelled over his shoulder as he ran ahead, anticipating Eddie’s fury.

“I will literally mangle you in the streets!” Eddie called after him, waving his crowbar in the air.

And they laughed into the starry night, content with their shared trauma and all the unspoken things between them.

Despite everything, they were still in Derry, but they were in Derry together, and that’s all that mattered to either of them.

**Author's Note:**

> if enough people like this, i think i could do a series of one-shots based on spirit phone
> 
> but thats a long shot :') lmao
> 
> i do hope u enjoyed and pls smack that kudos button if you can 🎉


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